


Last Orders

by Hope



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk!sex, post-Exit Wounds</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Orders

**Author's Note:**

> Written for/originally posted at [the June Torchwood porn battle](http://51stcenturyfox.livejournal.com/63977.html?thread=1428457#t1428457). Unbetaed.

Jack rouses with a jerk and the half-conscious movement makes his surroundings rock alarmingly. His body feels heavy, mouth numb and tongue thick, back of his neck prickling where heavy wool collar pulls against the nap of his hair. He's lying face down, clammy with sweat under his half-shed clothes from the heat of the body under him.

Jack tries to roll over, struggling with the heaviness of his own limbs and the uncooperative gravitational conditions; Ianto yelps as Jack lands an elbow low on his belly, flailing to curl his body inward and largely failing. Jack only notices that Ianto's bare erection was pressed against his chest when he finally flops on his back and notices the lack of it. They're only side by side for a moment, both sinking down toward each other with what feels like crushing force as the strained springs of Ianto's sofa bed struggle to cope with their combined weight. Then Ianto groans again, the sound pained and uncontrolled, and he hooks his heels on the edge of the fold-out bed, using them to drag himself off the ever-yielding surface.

Ianto stumbles once upright, bracing himself on one bracketing arm of the sofa before hobbling off out of the dimness of the living room into the slightly more-dark of the hall, trousers sagging down and gathering around his ankles, barely held up with one hand. Jack closes his eyes and tries to separate the sensation of the world lurching around him from the movement of the bed under him, springs still reeling from Ianto's abrupt departure.

He makes himself sit up, trying to focus--he remembers sending Gwen and Rhys off in a taxi outside the pub, remembers smacking his lips as the damp air of the wee small hours gave new heat to lingering burn of liquor. Remembers he and Ianto propping each other up as they walked, like books without bookends; remembers getting back to Ianto's house and Ianto shouldering the door open and just... continuing to lean, Jack laughing at him in the otherwise unnatural silence of the street. Ianto's amused _oof_ of surprise as Jack bounced him onto the mattress and they fumbled with their clothes, mouths wet against each other's chins, and then...

Jack wavers, half-crouched and half-sitting on the edge of the sofa bed, not entirely trusting it to hold his weight properly. Though he's not even sure what that means right now anyway, his body feels alternately leaden and insubstantial, numb. Like he's some kind of gaseous celestial body. Or some kind of astral belt with a core of disaster debris, space dust still clinging to it; pretty to look at, but nothing but tiny particles and gas.

Jack smothers a belch and it burns in his throat. His cock is half-hard when he cups his hand over it; he ponderously rises to his feet and palms it back into his underwear, easing the elastic back up from where it'd been shoved down carelessly. His trousers feel uncomfortable until he shrugs off his braces, struggling for a moment and nearly knocking into the wall as he realises he needs to take his coat off first, then stumbling again before he manages to step out of the shed clothing.

His palm smears against the light switch and he pauses for long moments in confusion at the lack of illumination before he remembers. He remains leaning against the wall as he drags himself along the hallway before falling into the recess of the stairwell. The carpet is soggy and cold under his bare legs, and Jack eases himself back onto the lower steps, their corners digging into the back of his skull. The tarpaulin haphazardly protecting the lower half of Ianto's house from the gape of elements crackles a little with the movement of the wind above, as if the house is respiring.

Jack stares up at the wrinkled blue plastic and listens to Ianto piss for a long time. The sound of urine streaming into the bowl tapers off, followed by the groan of the pipes and splash of water, then the hollow thud of the door being knocked open again. Jack leaves his head tilted back and watches the dark shape of Ianto's weaving body approach from under his eyelashes. He can't help but grin a little himself at the sound of Ianto's ungraceful snort of amusement when he sees Jack sprawled in the stairwell.

Ianto catches the foot Jack kicks out at him and Jack reels him in with it, letting Ianto fold his leg back against his chest and then lean against it, pressing Jack back against the uneven surface of the stairs.

"Did you want to go upstairs?" Ianto rumbles thickly against the side of Jack's neck. His fingers creep under the rucked-up leg of Jack's shorts, still wet from washing his hands, and Jack hisses as Ianto rubs unconcernedly against the head of his cock. It's not unpleasant as such; actually, more than anything the wet iciness makes Jack abruptly more aware, as if jerked back to the surface of his body. His cock stiffens, going from half-hard to something he'll actually be able to work with.

Jack thinks about going upstairs, of going upstairs with Ianto, fucking in the ruin of Ianto's old bedroom. The bed is half-waterlogged and half-charred, carpet covered with broken brick pieces like a pebbly beach, unpleasant to walk on even with the unbeatable views.

Jack's not collapsed on the stairs here because he wants to go up them, though, but because he couldn't bear the solitude, however briefly, of being sat alone in there on that non-bed that was only ever for visitors. Before he can say that, though, Ianto distracts him again.

"Or just--" Ianto giggles. "_On_ stairs..."

Jack's mind floods with the potential of it, drunken thought processes gifting him with more dexterity than he currently possesses, imagining himself turning over and crawling up the stairs only to have Ianto catch and fuck him right there before they can make it to the top. The angle and gradation of the stairs seem abruptly _perfect_ for such a thing, almost like they were built for it; the cessation of the house at the top is deliberate considering the true function of the staircase.

Before Jack can even try to turn over, though, Ianto's pushing at the side of Jack's knee, splaying it wider, pulling an ache from his groin. Ianto slithers down a few steps, arms coming up to wrap around Jack's thighs, bracing himself and holding Jack's legs open. His tongue indelicately drags over Jack's erection, wetting the thin cotton of Jack's shorts until it clings to the hot skin. Jack bows his spine and the altered angle of his hips makes him slide down a step; his undershorts drag up into the cleft of his arse, the seam of the suddenly-taut fabric forcing his balls tight against his body and the cuff of the leg cutting into the juncture of thigh and groin.

Jack squirms as his slowed reflexes catch up with the shock of new sensation, the sensory input rolling on as Ianto rubs him through the clammy fabric, unfocused soothing at first, then turning into a clumsy tracing of the shorts' seam, pressure increasing until he's forcing the dry wad of taut cotton against Jack's arsehole.

Ianto gentles the touch when Jack whines, then leaves it off entirely to concentrate on peeling the wet fabric away from the shaft of Jack's cock instead. The head of it knocks against Ianto's chin when it springs free through the opening at the front of the shorts, and Ianto quickly captures it in his mouth.

He sucks Jack not ambitiously, which Jack is fuzzily grateful for; too numb right now and aware that Ianto's probably feeling too similarly disconnected to retain control over his gag reflex (let alone his teeth), should he try to outreach the current capabilities of his alcohol-sodden body. Half the pleasure of the situation is the stimulation through the discomfort; the damp, abrasive carpet in the small of Jack's back, corner of a step grinding against the back of his skull, the constriction of his shorts and the increasing discomfort of his full bladder. Jack's almost certain that's half the reason he's even hard right now.

With his eyes closed the cold emanating from the ineptly-covered structural wound above is suddenly more oppressive on his face, and the sloppy tenderness of Ianto's warm mouth is abruptly almost more than Jack can bear. Pain stabs through his lower belly and his hand shoves against the side of Ianto's face, then Jack's coming, the sharp ache dragging out as his come lands on the side of Ianto's throat, his shoulder; Jack's almost sobbing with the sudden loss of control.

"Don't, _don't_," Jack gasps as Ianto's hand tries to keep stroking; Jack tries to push him away but feels more drunk than ever. "_Fuck_, I need to piss."

He almost falls asleep again propped up against the wall next to the bathtub, a more convenient place to lean as he pisses into the drain. Ianto's hand is still on Jack's cock and his body is hot at Jack's back. Ianto's only half-hard against Jack's arse, head heavy on Jack's shoulder. The relief is immense.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1516862.html


End file.
